


a language which we both knew

by nebulia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, BDSM, Bondage, Dom Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral Sex, Pillory, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Sub Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Subspace, Trans Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Trans Male Character, Wet & Messy, light slut-shaming, slight boot worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 11:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulia/pseuds/nebulia
Summary: [Felix isn’t cruel.He’s not gentle, really, either, but that’s not his nature. He’s utilitarian at best, and nastily snarky at worst, but that’s different than cruelty when it’sFelix. When ten years of anger and vengeance and sorrows festered between them for too long. Dimitri knows Felix, knows who he is. Knows what it means when Felix pushes a lock of hair behind Dimitri’s ear almost roughly, swordfaire calluses catching on his skin. Knows what it means when Felix calls him an a fool, a cumberground, an idiot, a bobolyne fuck, and occasionally, almost as an endearment, a boar, but never a beast or a monster.So Felix isn’t cruel.  That doesn’t mean they don’t fuck in the dungeons.]
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 5
Kudos: 66





	a language which we both knew

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in a bastardized Azure Moon timeline where I didn't have to kill Ferdie or Lorenz and they are significantly assisting Dimitri in running their respective nation-states. This is pertinent to exactly one sentence. I do imagine it takes place at least 6-7 years after canon, though--long enough that Dimitri and Felix have worked out their crunchy shit and actually communicate, at least in their own probably slightly dysfunctional way. 
> 
> I wrote this fic with a trans Dimitri who uses traditionally male terminology for his genitalia in mind. Between that and Dimitri's single-minded focus as the narrator of this fic, his transness ends up being more subtextual than supertextual, and I feel like it's very possible he could be easily read as cis--it's not something that explicitly comes up. This hopefully isn't a dealbreaker for anyone but I wanted to make it clear that this Dimitri is trans, but also his transness isn't extremely explicit in this fic. Additionally, this is a fic depicting D/s, but it's one that explicitly isn't TPE (neither 24/7 nor within this particular scene). 
> 
> thanks to seabee for the quick beta! all mistakes are my own! title is from the waterfall by mary oliver. please forgive me, my queer woods-wandering poet queen, for this nonsense. 
> 
> I think I got all the tags, but as always if I've missed one or you think I should add a tag, please let me know!

Felix isn’t cruel. 

Dimitri can’t deny his own history of violence or the way he’s inclined to wear it like a shroud. He struggles to be angry without succumbing to the demons that still live inside him. He does not like to be unkind, because he fears what it creates within him, and that in itself is a flaw: as a king of a healing continent, one must be unkind to intolerance. He could not bear to deliberately hurt Felix more than he already has. He isn’t cruel, either, but Felix is the one who prefers cold words, who wields cruelty deliberately, like a weapon. Dimitri always felt he’d deserved those blows. Parts of him still feel that way. 

But they’d had enough cruelty, Felix said, in a rare moment of vulnerability, back when the two of them were still trying to figure out what they were. He’s not gentle, really, either, but that’s not his nature. He’s utilitarian at best, and nastily snarky at worst, but that’s different than cruelty when it’s _Felix_. When ten years of anger and vengeance and sorrows festered between them for too long. Dimitri knows Felix, knows who he is. Knows what it means when Felix pushes a lock of hair behind Dimitri’s ear almost roughly, swordfaire calluses catching on his skin. Knows what it means when Felix calls him an a fool, a cumberground, an idiot, a bobolyne fuck, and occasionally, almost as an endearment, a boar, but never a beast or a monster. 

So Felix isn’t cruel. That doesn’t mean they don’t fuck in the dungeons. 

Dimitri is better about his strength now, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t ripped more sheets than he cares to imagine, that he hasn’t cracked a headboard more than once. For some things, the dungeons are ideal. Dimitri’s chambers are heavy stone and a thick wooden door, but the dungeons are still more remote, and these days, rarely occupied. They can be loud, there is less valuable property to damage--and there are... _restraints_. 

The pillory is low and wooden, allowing Dimitri to kneel mostly upright with his wrists and neck secured in place. It’s designed for punishment, to hold someone down, rather than public mockery. While he was waiting to be executed, Cornelia preferred a shrew’s fiddle for him, steel and agarthium with edges sharp enough to cut, engraved with seals that restrained his crest. After he bit one of the guard’s fingers so viciously they had to cut it off she added the branks. 

This pillory isn’t her work, but from some regime before hers--perhaps even his father’s, though the way knees have worn away the wood of the footing suggests it’s older than that. It has engravings, too, but they’re more familiar black magic, with the clear hand of the Royal School of Sorcery in the design. Dimitri doesn’t feel weakened, but no matter how he pulls, or how angry he gets, his crest doesn’t activate. He’s still stronger than Felix, but restrained, there’s little he can do. His control may be better, but it’s not perfect, and in some ways the restraint is a relief, a weight off his shoulders he didn’t notice until it was gone. 

He kneels, bound, naked, even his eyepatch missing, and Felix looks down at him. He doesn't linger on Dimitri’s scars, not the familiar marks of their youth, nor the burned patch of skin across his ribs and chest where there is no longer a nipple, the knotted tree branch across his stomach that is the remainder of a near-successful attempt to disembowel him, the crater of his empty eye socket. He just looks Dimitri over once, assessing him, before pressing his thumb at the corner of Dimitri’s mouth until he forces it open. Rubs the pad of it across Dimitri’s tongue, pushes deep enough for the tip of his thumb to brush Dimitri’s soft palate, and holds him him there until he starts to drool. 

“There,” Felix says, satisfied, and pulls his thumb away, a string of saliva connecting it to Dimitri’s mouth for a hand’s breadth before it breaks. He leaves his mouth open, less because Felix likes it and more because his mouth feels _empty_ , because now he’s hungry and wanting. 

Felix pulls at the laces of his breeches until he can pull out his cock. He’s already hardening but he fists it a few times, and Dimitri wants it in his mouth, cockhead darkening and filling as Felix’s winter-pale hand grasps it, a bead of precome welling up from the slit. He sticks his tongue out. He can already feel a messy strand of drool oozing off his chin. 

It’s taken a long time for Dimitri to not feel bad about wanting this, and then to be able to let go of everything else to be able to want it without his mind drifting elsewhere. But he’s fully present in his body now, focus narrowed in on Felix’s cock, and he wants it in his mouth. Wants Felix to fuck his throat until he’s raw and choking. Wants Felix’s boot pressed against his own prick so he can rut up against it. 

Rodrigue told him, when he died, that Dimitri’s life was his own, but he was wrong. As the Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and then a madman serving the voices of the dead and then the King of a united Fódlan, Dimitri’s life has never been his own; it has always belonged to his family line, to the dead, to his lords, and especially to the people. The years where he only cared for the promises he made to ghosts aren’t the only years his life was not his own; the difference was to who his life belonged, not whether or not it belonged to someone other than himself. He is bound by duty until he abdicates or dies. 

But Dimitri _chose_ this. He wants it for himself. Felix might be calling the shots, but it’s Dimitri who holds the reins, who says when and if they stop. They cut each other open a long time ago, but now that just means they hold each other’s beating hearts in their bare hands. His life isn’t his own, but Felix is. 

Felix makes a sound, half a laugh. He’s smirking. “Please,” Dimitri says, plain, cheeks hot, and Felix’s smirk bends, just a little, to something more honest than Felix probably wants Dimitri to see. 

“All right,” he says, and lets Dimitri lap at his cockhead, straining against the pillory to get there. “Look at you. You’re so desperate for it.”

Dimitri swipes his tongue over the underside of Felix’s prick, and Felix groans. “Do you want it?” he says, and Dimitri looks up at him through his lashes. He probably looks an utter fool, stretched out as far as he is, tongue out, but the two spots of color high on Felix’s cheeks, his dilated pupils, suggest Felix doesn’t mind. Dimitri puts it out of his head. Focuses in on the texture of Felix’s precome in his mouth, slightly thicker than his own saliva. On Felix, fist clenching and unclenching, belying his casual attitude. On Dimitri’s own arousal, the stretch in his shoulders, and any thoughts of how he looks flitter away. 

“Okay,” Felix says, as though it is a great sacrifice, and fists his hand in Dimitri’s hair before stepping forward to feed Dimitri his cock in one long, smooth movement, until Dimitri’s nose is pressed against the wiry thatch of pubic hair at the base of his cock, his throat working around the cockhead, until Dimitri gags, mouth filling with saliva, not prepared for Felix to go so deep.

Felix pulls back, taking a globule of Dimitri’s spit with his cock. He fists himself once, collecting the spittle, and then he rubs his hand across Dimitri’s face, smearing it in his eyelashes and across his cheek. “You look good like this,” he says, low. “Like a slut.” 

Dimitri is in many ways the exact opposite of a slut, but the word makes him shudder anyway. His hips jerk, and Felix scoffs. “You like this? Like being tied up and made to suck my cock?”

“You’re not making me do anything,” Dimitri says, and Felix slaps him across the face. It’s not a hard hit but Dimitri’s whole body lights up, the sting of Felix’s hand sizzling down to his toes. He can feel his prick throb. 

Felix sighs, less a role and more his own exasperation. He fists his hand in Dimitri’s hair and yanks his head up. “You are _terrible_ at this,” he says, with no heat. Dimitri swallows his smile; Felix complains about Dimitri all the time, including in bed (in dungeon). He’s learned when Felix is serious and when he’s just being Felix. 

“But I _do_ want to suck your cock,” Dimitri says, and his eye travels back down to Felix’s opened laces before Felix _yanks_.

“Look at me.”

Dimitri’s eye slides back up. Felix isn’t angry, but he’s making eye contact. He meets Dimitri’s eye more often when they're fucking than the rest of the time, but it’s still rare, and the intensity in his copper gaze makes Dimitri swallow. “You want this?” 

Dimitri nods, eye not leaving Felix’s. 

“Then beg,” he says, and Dimitri can feel his flushed face blush more deeply, ears and the back of his neck hot. “Beg for it, Dimitri.” 

Dimitri’s not a king here, not a war veteran, not a slave to his own ghosts. He’s just _Dimitri_ , and the only thing he is is what he wants to be, what Felix wants him to be. His knees feel heavy, settled in the hollows worn into the wood beneath him by countless prisoners before him. He can feel the ache starting in his shoulders, still not serious enough to warrant anything more than a passing thought. He is nothing more than his own body, existing for Felix and for himself. He wants to make Felix come. He wants Felix’s prick in his mouth so bad he’s nearly slavering with it, mouth watering. 

“Please,” he says in a rush, breath whooshing out of him all at once. “Please give me your cock, Felix, please--I want to suck it, I want it in my mouth, please give it to me--F-felix, I want you to fuck my face, _please--”_

“Then take it,” Felix says, and wrenches Dimitri’s mouth open with his thumb again while he presses forward, pushing his cock into Dimitri’s mouth, Dimitri’s whine muffled by the weight of it on his tongue. Felix pushes all the way in again, his prick nudging at the back of Dimitri’s throat, making him drool and choke as he swallows, adjusting. His eyes narrow as he watches Dimitri’s face. 

Dimitri can’t taste Felix’s cock, but it doesn't matter. When he gags, throat trying to close around Felix’s cockhead, Dimitri can feel it twitch. When his nose is pressed into Felix’s pubic hair, he can feel the fine shivers running through Felix’s body. When Felix grips his head and yanks back, pulling his cock all the way out along with a good deal of drool, he can see the way Felix’s eyes are half-lidded with pleasure, the way he’s blushing from hairline to the neckline of his shirt, and Dimitri whines, gargling through the mess in his mouth, dripping off his chin.

“Fine?” Felix says lowly, and Dimitri feels a rush of childish, shallow anger. He wonders if this is how Felix feels when Dimitri pulls his punches while they’re sparring. 

“Are you going easy on me?” he snarls, and _lunges_ to try and get back on Felix’s dick. The heavy, spelled wood holds him fast, but he nearly tips the whole pillory over with the force of the movement. Felix steadies it but his face has darkened to something more dangerous.

“How dare you,” he says, that same low even tone. “You want me to _not go easy_ on you?” 

Dimitri meets his eyes, defiant, and opens his mouth. Waiting. 

Felix grabs his head again, hands fisting in his hair, and stuffs his cock in Dimitri’s mouth. This time he fucks Dimitri’s throat hard, using Dimitri’s hair as a grip, barely giving him a chance to breathe. He’s stepped in close enough that Dimitri can feel the warmth radiating from his legs. Every time Felix’s cock choked him his mind goes blissfully blank, his body nothing but sensation. 

Dimitri looks up at him and Felix is watching him. A few strands of hair have come loose from his ponytail to wisp around his face and bangs, one clinging to his sweaty jaw. His eyes are _molten_ , like he could set Dimitri on fire with his gaze alone. One side of his mouth quirks up when he realizes Dimitri is watching him, and just as he shoves his cock back down Dimitri’s throat, he nudges Dimitri’s prick with his boot, and Dimitri _keens,_ choking on the spittle around Felix’s cock. More saliva pools in the corners of his lips, running down his chin in long, stringy globs on his collarbones, oozing down his chest. 

Felix fists one hand in Dimitri’s hair, and frames his jaw with the other, thumb in the corner of his mouth to hold it open so he can shove his cock in Dimitri’s mouth with ease. Dimitri lets him, covering his teeth as best he can, jaw starting to ache along with his shoulders, but the pain is grounding, keeping him deep in his body and out of his own head. The ever-present self-loathing, the current docket of paperwork on his desk, the nightmare he had two nights ago, an upcoming visit from Ferdinand and Lorenz--all those things float far to the back of his head, out of his range, until all he can think about is the twinges in his shoulders, the stretch of his jaw, Felix’s cock in his mouth. The empty space he leaves when he pulls out, before he thrusts back in. The way Felix’s boot is pressed firmly enough between his legs that Dimitri has ample room and ability to rut against it, his own precome easing the way as he drips onto the leather, hips rocking into Felix’s sturdy stance. His eye, beginning to water. Felix’s breath, harsh and fast above his head, each exhale just barely aspirated and rising in pitch.

Dimitri swallows and, his eye fills and then overflows with reactionary tears as his throat revolts for a moment; he gags once and then coughs and Felix pulls out entirely, his hands rubbing rough circles at the joint of Dimitri's jaws, almost hard enough to bruise. His jaw clicks a few times under Felix’s hands before it relaxes. 

Felix holds Dimitri’s face in both hands, tipping it up. There’s spit and sweat and tears in his bangs, and they’re in his eye before Felix swipes the hair to one side, clinging to his temple and forehead. He’s hazy above Dimitri for several long blinks before he finally comes into focus. Felix opens his mouth, closes it, swallows, and tries again. “Are you going to finish the job, or will I have to?” he says, voice harsh. 

“I want to,” Dimitri says, sounding like he’s been eating wet gravel. 

“Can you?” Felix says, sneering. “I thought you said you could take it.” He nudges Dimitri’s cock with his boot. It’s not quite hard enough to be a kick, but it’s close. All it does, though, is make Dimitri’s hips kick, his breath catch in the wreckage of his throat. His nose is beginning to run. 

“I meant it,” Dimitri says. He can’t wipe his face, which is the point, but he can feel his ears and cheeks burning at the mess he must look like. Teary-eyed, lashes clumped together, snot and drool on his chin, mouth half-open--”Felix, _please_ \--”

Felix looks vibrant above him, black hair a little mussed, pale skin flushed pink, and hot-copper eyes bright in the dinginess of the dungeon. His cock is blood-red dark and heavy, framed by the laces of his breeches and smalls, a clear drop of precome at the slit. He pushes Dimitri’s hair back out of his face and then uses it as a grip to _pull,_ yanking Dimitri’s head into place, and Dimitri closes his eye as he opens his mouth wide, his whole body relaxing in the pillory with his throat. 

Felix shoves his cock in again, so deep Dimitri can no longer look up at him, face pressed into the wiry hair at the base of his prick. One of his hands drifts down to Dimitri’s throat, thumb rubbing from the hollow up over-- _fuck--_

“Do you feel that?” Felix says savagely, breathless. “Do you feel my prick in your throat?” He runs his thumb over the bulge of his dick, above his Adam’s apple, and presses down on it, shuddering. Around his cock, Dimitri, eye streaming, fights the urge to pull back, to bite down, choking around Felix’s cockhead, jaw screaming, until he thinks for one moment of terror he might actually throw up, and he’s deep enough in sensation that even the fear has him rocking down against Felix’s boot with more desperation, the glide easing as his precome slicks the way. “That’s _mine_ ,” Felix snarls and while Dimitri isn’t sure what Felix is referring to, it doesn’t matter, because it is. Felix pulls him off, his own hand replacing Dimitri’s mouth, the sound of him jerking off filthy and wet, and Dimitri coughs helplessly as he catches his breath, drool pouring from his mouth. 

He’s moving so desperately against Felix’s boot between his legs, pressed right up against his cock, that he can only push his forehead into Felix’s hip and gasp raspily as he comes, fucking against Felix’s boot for a long crest of an orgasm. By the time he’s done he’s sobbing with it, his eye as wet as his mouth. 

Felix pulls him back by the hair on the back of his head, a bright snap of pain, and Dimitri’s whine is hoarse and soggy. Felix examines his face, runs his thumb across Dimitri’s swollen, sore lower lip, and swears before pushing his cock back in and fucking Dimitri’s mouth quick and hard--one, two, three times, and then coming in a handful of messy spurts in his mouth, on his his lips, and across his right cheek. Dimitri can’t taste it, but he can feel it, viscous, on his tongue. He moves to swallow it, but before he can Felix drops to his knees and kisses him.

Between the spit and the come, it’s messy. Felix is almost desperate, kissing Dimitri sloppy, angry in his intensity--as Felix often is--and Dimitri craves his touch, his hands, his mouth, the warmth of his body. He opens his mouth for Felix, lets Felix pull him back by the hair to lick up his cheek in a long swipe and feed Dimitri his own come, whines when Felix bites down on his lip hard. His hands move futilely in the pillory, trying to reach for Felix, but Felix just holds Dimitri’s head in his hands, thumbs pressing into his sore jaw, and kisses him until they're both gasping for breath.

When he pulls away, he stands, giving Dimitri a cursory onceover, checking for obvious injury, and then reaches out to unlatch the pillory, freeing him. He catches Dimitri when he tips forward, no longer supported externally, and Dimitri faceplants into Felix’s stomach, the soft linen of his shirt.

“Ugh,” Felix mutters as he helps Dimitri catch his balance, looking down at him. Dimitri opens his mouth to apologize for covering Felix’s shirt with the mess of bodily fluids on his face, but before he can, Felix’s face softens until he’s almost smiling. His hands smooth back Dimitri’s messy hair, fingers soft until they bend to scritch just behind Dimitri’s ears, along the nape of his neck. Dimitri makes a queer little trilling sound at the warmth of his hands, the satisfaction of Felix’s nails, the way they make a shiver run down his post-orgasmic spine, and he hears Felix huff a laugh even as his eye flutters shut. His hands smooth his hair back once more before they move, pressing into the cords between shoulder and neck, where Dimitri can feel the ache of pulling at the pillory, the remnants of the tension in his body, thumbs sinking deep. Dimitri sucks in a breath and then sighs it out in a low moan, head dropping forward, arms coming around Felix’s waist. 

Felix isn’t gentle, but sometimes his hands are, his face is. 

He tips Dimitri’s head up to him after a moment and makes eye contact, a rarity when Dimitri’s not tied up. He nudges Dimitri’s inner thigh with the boot between Dimitri’s legs, still smeared wet with Dimitri’s come. His face is soft-edged and so is his voice when he speaks: 

“Clean up your mess, boar,” he says, almost a caress, and Dimitri smiles and leans forward, eye still on Felix’s. Presses an open-mouthed kiss against Felix’s wrist holding his head, against the place on his thigh where Felix’s breeches meet his boot, against his leather-clad calf, and, finally, against his own spend splattered across the toe. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! 
> 
> You can find me most often at [coaIsack](http://twitter.com/coaIsack) on twitter! thank god for a fandom where i can just use whatever early modern/medieval references i want with no care towards verisimilitude!


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